


Trial of a Righteous Man

by tahirire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s05e14 My Bloody Valentine, Gen, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-02
Updated: 2010-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahirire/pseuds/tahirire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean pov tag to 5.14. For <a href="http://alwaysenduphere.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://alwaysenduphere.livejournal.com/"><b>alwaysenduphere</b></a> .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trial of a Righteous Man

Trial of a Righteous Man __

"And the Lord said unto Satan, Hast thou considered my servant Job?" Job 1:8

Dean leans against the steel of the Impala and feels only cold, inside and out.  The frayed cords holding together his cracked, fragile shell give way another weary inch, shattered pieces couched inside a deep-seated numbness.

He doesn’t feel the bottle in his hand, he doesn’t feel the bitter night wind, he doesn’t feel …

Dean knows he’s really not that lucky. No one can ever just feel _nothing_.

Nothing just feels a lot like despair.

~*~

 _"Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in?" Job 3:23_

All his life, Dean has been a giver – gave a piece himself to everyone he ever vowed to protect and watched them fall, one by one, snuffing out like so many candles, and he has nothing left to give of his heart.

The only thing left to give is his body. He would if he thought it would help, but the truth is, he knows deep inside that Michael is wrong. The pieces of his heart never warded an innocent from harm. His body would be no different.

No one is immune to the Winchester curse, he thinks. Not even an archangel.

~*~

 _"When I think my bed will comfort me and my couch will ease my complaint, even then you frighten me with dreams and terrify me with visions, so that I prefer strangling and death, rather than this body of mine. I despise my life; I would not live forever. Let me alone; my days have no meaning.” Job 7:11-16_

It feels so easy, natural, the thought of ending it all. To slip over the ridges of those dark hills into nothingness, to _become_ the nothing he once wished he could be.It feels easy because that’s how fantasies are ... smooth at the edges, inviting - impossible.

Dean opens his mouth and words tumble out; he’s not even sure, at first, who he’s calling for. Michael’s presence is a constant buzzing under his skin, the angel’s voice makes up the background of his dreams. He won’t have to worry about falling asleep the next few days, he knows. There’s a perverse kind of pleasure in knowing that.

The words fly up, but his thoughts remain below, behind, underneath, in Hell, with Sam.

 _Words without thoughts_ , Dean thinks, _never to Heaven go_.

~*~

 _“I will say to God: Do not condemn me, but tell me what charges you have against me. Does it please you to oppress me, to spurn the work of your hands, while you smile on the schemes of the wicked?”  Job 10:2-3_

He didn’t expect an answer, really, but it still hurts.

~*~

 _“My days have passed, my plans are shattered, and so are the desires of my heart. These men turn night into day; in the face of darkness they say, 'Light is near.' If the only home I hope for is the grave, if I spread out my bed in darkness, where then is my hope?" Job 17:11-16_

Dean finds Bobby passed out in his chair at the top of the basement stairs, half-draped with a ratty flannel blanket and snoring soundly. His legs hang there, dead weight, tacked-on burdens to remind them all of better days.

The empty bottle on the floor beside the chair looks like it’s reaching for the old man’s outstretched hand, and Bobby’s fingers twitch slightly as he dreams.

When Dean came back from Hell, he helped Bobby toss out all the booze. He remembers how his friend’s gruff voice cracked, how his dark eyes shifted away, how he watched as Bobby buried his sorrows in stacks of dusty books.

Knowing them both hasn't ever brought Bobby anything but pain, but Bobby’s head is tilted toward the basement door and he guards Sam even in his sleep.

Sam screams, and Bobby flinches, stirring but not waking. Dean’s eyes well again with tears. Just because a boomerang always returns doesn’t mean you have to catch it, but Bobby always takes them back.

The man only has half his body, but he’s still got all his strength. Dean presses his fist to his lips and blinks hard, pushing the thought away. However much strength is there, Bobby needs it for himself. Dean can’t ask him to spare it.

He reaches out and pulls the blanket up more firmly around Bobby’s shoulders, and then heads down the stairs.

~*~

 _"Did not I weep for him that was in trouble? Was not my soul grieved for the poor?" Job 30:25_

Castiel stands vigil in the narrow hallway, exactly as Dean left him. Dean stops in front of the door and closes his eyes, balling his hands into fists.

Sam’s frantic cries and pleas wash over him, ripping through him in wave after wave of flashbacks, times when he told himself it didn’t matter because he always knew it wasn’t real, he always knew it wasn’t _Sammy,_ because if Sammy had been _there_ , in that place with him, he would have known it. He would have felt it.

This is the flip side of the coin, the other half of the story, the mirror between worlds. Dean hopes that whoever is watching, whatever agent of Fate or Destiny is pushing these parallels, they get a fucking kick out of it.

Dean cracks the safe and goes inside, pulling the door shut behind him. Red iron walls and red ceiling lights, red eyes and red blood and red meat, everywhere he looks, red, red, red.

Dean walks to the edge of the cot and watches his brother buck and writhe, listens to him sob and scream, watches the muscles in his neck cord tight with strain, and thinks, _Shhh, it’s okay, it isn’t real_ , but he doesn’t say it out loud.

He can’t, because it’s real for Sam, and that makes it real enough. Knowing if it’s real or not doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.

It always _feels_ real.

~*~

 _"Then he is gracious unto him, and saith, deliver him from going down to the pit: I have found a ransom." Job 33:24_

Sam’s first lucid moment hurts Dean worse than all the screaming of the last two days combined. The sudden silence is uncomfortable, and Dean twitches, feeling uneasy in a way he hasn’t felt since …

Earth, compared to Hell, is pretty silent.

Sam’s eyes slide away, like he doesn’t see Dean, or like maybe he isn’t sure which Dean he sees. He takes a ragged gasp like he hasn’t breathed in months, twists his long fingers around the cuffs on his wrists. He closes his eyes tight and bites his lip, struggling against himself in an effort to stay awake.

Dean presses a cold washcloth to Sam’s cheek and flinches when Sam jerks away from the touch. Sam shakes his head, sharp, conveying everything with a single glance.

 _I’ve seen you. I see you._

Dean swallows hard, his hand falling to his side. It was only a matter of time before Sam figured it out; before Sam realized that Dean never came back at all.

But when he goes to stand, Sam’s worn fingertips grab the frayed hem of his jacket sleeve, and Dean freezes. Sam stares at the wall until the next round starts, but he never lets go.

Dean stays until it’s over.

  ~*~

 _"And the Lord turned the captivity of Job, when he prayed for his friends: also the Lord gave Job twice as much as he had before." Job 42:10_

Sam asks how long he was out for and Dean tells him three days. Sam laughs, a dry sound turned wet at the edges, deep in his chest. The significance isn’t lost on Sam, but Dean can't give a fuck.

Sam looks like hammered dog shit warmed over twice-baked potatoes, but somehow when he sits up, his grip on Dean’s shoulder is strong enough to hurt. There’s a blazing in Sam’s eyes that Dean used to see in the mirror, before he stopped looking … before Hell.

He thinks the look might be determination and he remembers how it felt - and remembering isn’t the same as feeling, not exactly. But it’s a start.  



End file.
